Outside
the window of room 217 the view was of the rather unattractive back of
the adjacent building, so close that a small running start would be
enough to jump from one balcony to the other. On Earth, it
would have been a parking lot and while a small piece of it was,
indeed set aside for vehicle storage, only a few made use of it.
He hadn't much cared for his hometown, but as a native son of Detroit,
Riddick felt obligated to be offended. He liked cars,
always had. Only the antiques had personality, though.
These days, everything looked the same.

That
made him laugh. Things hadn't looked the same for months.

Jack
sprawled on the couch, remote control in hand, flipping through
channels on the muted television set. She looked completely
at ease, but he could sense the tension beneath her skin; the
non-lethal fight-or-flight ready to engage at an instant's notice.
The morning had been awkward as all hell, so far, but less than he'd
imagined, given the night that came before it. For
something so small, that quick and unexpected kiss hung between them
like a ton of lead waiting to drop on the first person to mention its
presence.

He'd
spent the early hours sitting awake in Marty's room, telling himself
it was because his friend needed him but knowing full well that he
needed a place to think. Things had tried to complicate
themselves with thoughts of consequences and responsibilities, but he
didn't let them. The truth of it was that for a good thirty
seconds, none of that had entered his mind and he felt remarkably less
guilty than he'd thought he would. Fleeting as it had
been, that moment was something he'd never had before and now he was
forced to wonder if he, not Jack, was the one caught up in the novelty
of something happening between them.

The
idea certainly had appeal, though reservations still tweaked the back
of his mind. Would
his inner bastard, tucked neatly away during their time together, surface and lay waste to his carefully constructed illusion of
normalcy? The thought of having something indicative of an
ordinary, healthy life thrilled him. But his near-giddiness began to
erode before a seething tide of suppressed violence and anger; clawed
at by the bleached-bone hands of the dead. The things he hadn't
let her see weren't gone, no matter how much dirt he shoveled on top
to keep them down.

For
fuck's sake, he thought. If you can't control yourself
you don't belong out here in the first goddamn place.

He
shook his head and turned his attention back to the vidphone screen
where the words "please hold" spelled themselves out over
and over again in blocky, yellow letters over the faded-out logo of
Quivers, Hessler & Moore; the law firm handling Jack's
inheritance. At the bottom of the screen, images of tranquil,
terrestrial settings faded in and out. He'd turned down the
sound ten minutes ago when the accompanying music had finally gotten
to him.

"Might
as well turn it back up," he said, breaking the silence.
"I'm on eternal hold."

Instead,
she tossed the remote on the table and stood, stretching. She
made a show of it, reaching for the ceiling with both hands until the
white lace of her bra peeked from underneath her shirt. He
caught himself smiling

and
wide-open, bare-assed staring I might add

and
covered it behind a hand and a subtle clearing of his throat.
Smirking, Jack sauntered up and set both palms on the table, leaning
forward until he could see straight down the front of her shirt.
Riddick raised his eyes quickly to meet hers, brandishing a smirk of
his own. Her gaze wavered for an instant, then fixed him firmly.

"Caught
you looking," she said in a low, decidedly un-Jack-like purr.

Sure
as hell looked to him like he wasn't the only one who'd done some
thinking last night. He swept aside his mild surprise and let
the smirk become a smile as he regarded her. Jesus, she was
young. Reminders lay in everything from the smooth lines of her face
to her narrow figure still blooming into curves. But she wasn't
a kid, and there was no convincing himself otherwise, anymore.
He'd tried like a son-of-a-bitch to keep his first vision of her fixed in his
mind; lanky, clumsy, hair dyed mouse-brown, wearing too-big clothes
and half-shuffling around in too-big shoes. No good. She'd
been a boy, then, even to him, but it didn't take the impromptu
peep-shows of the last couple of days to make him realize that things
were different, now. Really different; as though last night's
simple encounter had sent tumbling the last chipped and ill-fitting bricks
of the wall he'd put up between them.

Yeah,
like you both haven't been picking away at the fucker for months.

Only
he seemed to have been using a spoon while she'd taken to it with a
pickaxe and high explosives.

"That
mean I'm in trouble?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Circling
the table, Jack leaned on its edge and gazed down at him, her eyes
narrowed into glistening, catlike slits above her smile.

"That
all depends," she said, tracing a finger slowly across the top of
the vidphone monitor.

"On
what?" The undisguised seduction in her expression both
unnerved and excited him, and like any good fighting man, he readied
himself for anything.

"On
how you feel about me."

Except
for that. Sucker-punched like an amateur. Where the hell
did she learn stuff like that? Oh.

"How
I feel, huh?" he asked, rubbing the side of his jaw with a thumb.
Riddick didn't want to embarrass her with a flippant reply, or confuse
her with any of the half-thought-out truths that had been bouncing
around his head. Instead, he recalled Marty's former advice,
which he was almost certain had been given seriously. "Why
don't we talk about it over dinner?"

"What,
like on a date?"

He
almost burst out laughing at the exact repetition of his own, previous
words.

"Yeah,"
he nodded. "Like on a date."

Jack
looked suddenly very pleased with herself. "Yeah?
Cool. Almost like normal folks, huh?" she said with a
lopsided smile.

"Almost,"
he agreed, returning the smile. A change on the monitor caught
the corner of his eye and he turned back to it, relieved to see that
the hold message had vanished in favor of one that said 'connecting'.
He turned the sound up again and sat straight in the chair, smoothing
the snazzier-than-usual shirt he'd donned for the occasion. At
Jack's puzzled look, he said, "I'm supposed to be your secretary,
remember? How's my hair?"

She
laughed loudly and shook her head, grinning. As the screen
announced the imminent connection to a real, live person, he took a
deep breath and cleared his throat, preparing. An older woman
faded into view, thin lips stretched into a polite smile and her dark
hair pulled into a bun so tight that Riddick guessed it must be
holding up her eyebrows. Behind her was a blue-gray wall hung
with a large, shining, three-dimensional representation of the logo
that had graced the vidphone screen for the last twenty minutes.

"Thank
you for holding, sir." He didn't think she meant it.
"How may I help you?"

"I'm
calling on behalf of my employer," he said, at least an octave
higher than usual. "I'd like to make an inquiry."

"Case
number," the woman replied dully.

"Four-five-four-nine-dash-T-one-one.
Estate of Jackson G. Weller."

Suddenly,
she focused on him, her lazy eyes widening and her shriveled
countenance taking on new life. Shitload of money and property.
Must have been one hell of a payday for Q,H&M. "Whom do
you represent?"

"Jackie
M. Weller," he replied, tapping the fingers of one hand on the
table. "His granddaughter and single largest beneficiary.
She would like to fill out the forms in advance and have a copy of all
up-to-date paperwork if poss--"

"I'm
terribly sorry," she interrupted, fiddling nervously with a light
pen on her desk. "But all properties, assets and monies are
being held until the resolution of another pending case."

Riddick
pursed his lips in a look of almost feminine annoyance. What the
hell was this? Just out of
sight, Jack slapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with
laughter.

"What
case would that be?" he scowled.

"Another
beneficiary has filed a suit disputing the disbursement of--"

"Another
beneficiary? Who?"

"I'm
terribly sorry, sir, but I cannot divulge that information."

Sure
as hell would divulge it if I jammed that light pen up your--

"I
think she's got the right to know who's delaying disbursement,"
he said.

"If
you would like a copy of suit, with all of the details outlined, Ms.
Weller must show up in person, with two forms of identifica--"

"I'll
have to call you back," he said, and thumbed the 'disconnect'
button, making her disappear. "Motherfucker."

"Has
to be my dad," said Jack.

Riddick
nodded thoughtfully. Ordinarily the answer would have been
simple. Break the fucker's legs and make him drop the case.
But despite her outward animosity toward her father, he had the
feeling Jack wouldn't approve. Then he glanced up at her, noting
the fire in her eyes and angry furrow in her brow and thought she
might at that. Regardless, something else was happening here,
and it stunk. Maybe if they just leaned on him a little.

"We
should go have a talk with good old Virge," she growled.
Then Jack roared in frustration and pounded the floor with her feet.
"I knew that asshole was up to something! Son-of-a--"She stopped abruptly, making calming
gestures to the air. "I'm good. Okay, now what?"

"We
go have a talk with good old Virge."

"Should
we wait for Marty?"

"That
could be a long wait, kids."

Riddick
turned to see Bender propped against the wall, leaning heavily as
though he were using his weight to hold it up instead of the other way
around.

"You
look like complete shit," he said, then regretted it. In
the state he woke up in after a spell, Marty couldn't take a joke or
sometimes even get it. To Riddick's surprise, his friend offered
a weak smile and a mildly obscene gesture.

"Bite
me."

With a
look of resolve, Martin fixed his sights on the couch and leaned away
from the wall. They both watched anxiously as he made his way
there and eased onto the cushions with a heavy sigh. Riddick
studied him as he slouched, looking pale and small, nearly swallowed
by a mound of pillows. The glassy look he'd come to expect was
absent. Marty just seemed...tired. It occurred to him then
that someday he'd probably look the same. Worn out and worn down
from lugging around an immense weight no one else could see.
Jesus H. but he was an introspective bastard, today.

"How
you feeling, boss?"

Marty
tilted his head at an image on the silent television screen, and for
a moment it looked like he wasn't going to answer. Finally, he
said slowly, "Been worse."

He
surprised Riddick by going on, the look of concentration on his face
almost painful to watch. "You crazy kids do what you've got
to do," he said. "If y-you're worried about trouble
with your old man, Jack, just arrange to meet in a public
p-place. In a good neighborhood. You'll do fine. If
you n-need me..." His voice stuck a little on the last bit
and he let it drop, gesturing toward the vidphone.

Jack
nodded her understanding. "You'll be okay?"

"Yup."

"Right
on, then," she said. "We'll jump the bastard when he
gets off work. If we call first, he'll have too much time to think. I want to catch him off guard.
Makes it easier to tell if he's feeding us a line of bullshit or
not. I want to know about the lawsuit, I want to know where
grandpa's card key is, and I want to know what the hell Marlene Castor
is up to. If we have to use force, fine."

Bender
shook his head gingerly and smiled. "She's starting to s-sound like one of us," he said.

The
broad grin that burst onto Jack's face sent a jolt up Riddick's spine.
One of us. It was clear the idea pleased her. He
wondered if she'd still like that gift once she saw what was under
the wrapper.

Twelve

Traveling
strips of stark, white light passed through the cab, washing out
colors already dimmed by Terra-luna’s perpetual night.Jack held the cloth-bound diary closer to her face as she
flipped through its time- and tear-warped pages.Her handwriting began as sprawling, loopy letters at the front
of the book, changing gradually to tight, tiny characters that made
her squint.Once, she’d
considered this rare gift of cloth and paper to be thoughtful, even
sweet, on her father’s part.Now
that she was older – and wiser, she hoped – it struck her as
incredibly selfish.Doubtless
he’d purchased in it hopes that it would save him the trouble of
trying to crack into the kind of digital, password-protected diary
most kids her age kept.She
scanned, mostly, stopping now and then when she got caught up in her
own writing and wondering at the things that were important to her
only a few years ago.Cute
boys on the block.Math
finals.Her hair.Oh
man, her hair.

The
same set of words stood out with astounding frequency.Lied to me...lied to me...lied to me.She scowled and
continued to scan. I'll spend more time at home...I'm working
late...you can go visit your mother...Every promise that had been
yanked out from under her was dutifully and, more often than not,
angrily, recorded here.Had
it really been that bad?

Nodding
inwardly, she let the book fall shut and dropped it on her lap, then
turned her eyes toward the passing scenery. It wouldn't do to
look at Riddick and let him see the tears of rage forming in her eyes. And
her dad was still doing it, the son of a--

She
thought of her dear, sweet old grandmother and changed mid-epithet.

--the
wanker.

The
idea of barging in and letting the big guy take revenge made her lips
twitch into what she imagined was a wicked smile. She could ask
Riddick to break a finger to go with each broken promise, but even if
they did a knuckle at a time there wouldn't be enough to go around.

Jackie,
sweetheart, why don't you stay for dinner? I'd love for you two
to get to know each other...

"I'll
bet you would," she muttered. She felt Riddick's eyes on her but
he didn't say anything. Jack wondered if he was being polite or
was just used to her talking to herself. She glanced over,
pointedly avoiding his eyes as she took him in and turned away.
Riddick was stretched out as far as the back seat would allow;
relaxed, like a big cat in a small but comfortable cage. One arm
rested on top of the seat behind her head; close, warm, familiar.She tried to remember the moment her idea of him had gone from
exhilarating fear and fascination to comfort and…that other thing he
didn’t seem to want to talk about, and couldn’t. One of her
previous thoughts grabbed her and caused her to ask, "Have you
ever lied to me?"

Almost
immediately, he answered, “Yes.”

Jack
gaped at him and let out a loud burst of surprised laughter. One
corner of Riddick's mouth quirked up into a lopsided smile as he
watched her.

“Jeez
Louise, did you have to answer so damn fast?" she said, frowning
the laughter into submission. “So, what about?”

He
shook his head, straight-faced and unreadable. "You know,
just maybe there's a reason I lied in the first place."

Jack
went quiet for a while, thoughtfully studying the drab patterns on the
back of the seat in front of her. This wasn't what she'd expected at
all.The idea of him
dashing her hopes with casual falsehood made her shiver.Should she be angry with him for lying before or pleased that
he'd chosen to be honest now? Couldn’t he have just lied and said
“no”?Oh.

"I
don't want things to be like that between us," she said.

"Like
what?"

"I
don't want you to lie to me, even if it's--" she almost choked on
the phrase. "For my own good." Gesturing in the
air between them, she added, "I want this to be a bullshit-free
zone. No little white lies, no lies by omission, none of that
stuff. Besides, if there's something you don't want to tell me,
it's probably something I should know, anyhow."

His
expression still refused to give anything away.She tried to force hers to mirror it, but he’d had far more
practice.Had she asked
too much and pissed him off? Too late to take it back, but she
decided to pause and give him a chance to say something. When he
didn't speak, panic tightened her throat. Nice going dipshit.Now he’s gonna clam up.

Riddick's
hands began and aborted half a dozen gestures before he gave up and
let them drop into his lap. "The truth is
overrated," he said finally.

Her
will to argue wavered as she watched the motion of his long, strong
fingers. "I don't think it is," she countered, cursing
mentally when her voice caught.

"Too
much honesty and you forget how to tell when people are lying.
Because even if I don't, Jack, chances are somebody else will."

Jack
shifted in her seat and tried not to scowl at him, knowing full well
how miserably she was failing. No matter how often he baited her, she
always fell for it. Willingly, even. But it didn't feel
like he was playing, now. He was serious. Well, so was
she.

"Look,
I'm not asking you to cut off your--"

He
shot her a mildly cautioning look and she stopped, lips pursed.

"You're
afraid you can't do it," she challenged. Ha! Take
that!

I'm
what? his
look stated clearly. But the sentiment didn't carry into his
voice, which remained level as ever. "Given much thought to
what you're asking?

"We've
spent a lot of time together."

"And?"

Dammit,
why did he always do that?

"And
after everything I've seen and heard, I think we should be capable of
being honest with each other," she said. There, that
sounded...almost reasonable.

He
looked thoughtful for a long moment, pale globes of light dancing in
his eyes.

"You're
right, I can't do it," he said flatly.

Jack
almost growled in frustration."Why the hell not? Have you been feeding me
bullshit this whole time or something? Are you really just a
file clerk from Poughkeepsie? Were you wanted for a shitload of
unpaid parking tickets? What?"

He
chewed on his lower lip and regarded her through narrowed eyes.

"I've
done things I'm not proud of," he said. "And you don't
need to know about them all."

"Marty
knows."

"That's
different," he shot back.

"Why,
because he's a guy?" Jack winced at the lowness of her
reply and the rising defensiveness in her voice. She knew damn
well that had nothing to do with it but she was running out of
arguments and wasn't about to fall back on the bald truth that her
indignant glare disguised.

"Because
he's done them, too."

Bingo.Jack turned away and drew her knees up, resting her heels on
the edge of the seat. The lower corners of the diary bit
uncomfortably into her legs but she ignored them. It was easy to
forget exactly how much her two men had in common. Despite his
calm and generally sweet disposition, Marty was just as much a killer
as Riddick, though the authorities sanctioned his work.Business, not personal. The two had, in fact, killed
together; an intimate act the thought of which gave her twinges
in odd places. So, what did she have to do to make him think
she'd understand? Kill somebody? She was about to ask when
he continued.

"If
this is because of something between you and your dad you need to work
it out with him," he said. With a small, reassuring smile,
he added, "I'll keep."

Jack
opened her mouth to let him have it but the last bit stopped her cold.
Or rather, warm. She let the unpleasant implications of what
he’d said fall away in favor of the one that made her go gooey in
the middle."Yeah?"
she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He
nodded.

"You're
willing to wait around while I work out my issues, huh?"

"Hunh,"
he replied. "I'll be working mine out until I have to gum
my food, anyhow."

"You're
a raging romantic, you know that?" said Jack, laughing.

For
a few blocks, they were both quiet. Jack unfolded herself and
stretched out her long legs, letting the diary slip off of her lap.
It reminded her of what had started the conversation in the first
place.

"Still,"
she began. "As your employer..."

"Maybe
someday," Riddick sighed. "I will get very, very
drunk and maudlin, spill my guts, and let you pick through them as you
please, but until then? I’m going to lie. Like a
rug." He shrugged, looking vaguely apologetic, and for a
minute she wasn't sure he was going to say anything more. But
then, "You're right. There’s been a lot of…stuff
between us. You know more about me than any--" He
paused, eyes flashing in the passing light. "Woman ever
has. Damn near more than anybody."

Her
heart fluttered wildly and she worked hard to suppress a broad,
bliss-filled grin. It quickly became pointless, however, as she felt
her skin flush all over. Maybe the light, varying between dim
and harsh, would manage to hide the sudden color.

"You
mean that?"

He
smiled at her. "Which part?"

"You're
impossible."

"Improbable,
maybe."

"No
shit," she nodded.

Absently,
Riddick reached over and traced a quick line on the back of her hand
with the tip of one long, smooth finger, then withdrew with a sudden,
self-conscious jerk. Despite the thrill that ran through her at
his touch, Jack made herself be still.

"Your
dad lied to you a lot?" he asked. Jack stopped just short
of glaring in shock. She wondered what was really going on in
his head today. Not that he'd been truly callous toward her for
quite some time -- and she suspected that even what had come before
was a huge crock of tough-guy posturing -- but this attentive,
sensitive thing was starting to make her suspicious. What had
changed in the last couple of days to make him act so strangely?
For the love of God, a date?

"Whenever
he could," she nodded. She picked up the diary and placed a
finger on opposite corners, spinning it idly as she talked.
"The biggest problem, the thing that pisses me off the most, is
that I was too young and stupid to realize it for a really long time.
I actually believed the 'something came ups' and the 'maybe next
times' for much longer than anybody with half a brain should.”

"You
were young," he shrugged.

"I'm
still young," Jack pointed out. "And I don't believe
it now."

Riddick
knit his fingers over his chest and tapped his thumbs in no
discernible rhythm. "You've had some, ah, life-altering
experiences," he said. "Sometimes those can make you
see things more clearly."

"Amen
to that," she said. On a whim, she added, "Though
figuring out what you're thinking is still a righteous pain in the
ass."

He
flashed a small smile, perhaps in appreciation of his own ability to
drive her batshit. "Isn't that the way it's supposed to
be?"

"No.
See, you're the man," she replied. "You're supposed to
be straightforward and easy to read. I'm the woman. I'm
supposed to be mysterious and complicated and always keep you
guessing."

"Hmm."

"So
fall into line, man!" Jack said, giving him a playful smack on
the thigh.

He
shook his head and grunted.“You
wish.”

Jack
tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, considering. Banter.
Yes, that's most certainly what this was. It wasn't as though
they hadn't done it before, but this time there was a subtle
difference she couldn't quite put her finger on. They'd been
tossing around double entendre and innuendo almost from the start,
nearly to the point of ease and comfort while making remarks about
acts and anatomy that she, at least, had an extreme interest in.
This was almost like a...a mating dance. All the better, then.
She just wished he would quit trying to make her lead.

"How
about this?" asked Riddick thoughtfully. "No new
bullshit. The other stuff will take care of itself in time, but
for now, since you're the boss and all--"

She
was nodding before he even finished. "Deal."

Riddick
took the hand she offered and shook it. His palm was warm and
dry, soft against hers. She wondered what it was like to touch
the rest of him.

"And
now, in this spirit of newfound honesty," she began.
"There's something I'd really like to know."

"Uh-oh."
The little-boy tone with which he said it almost made her laugh, but
she wrapped it up in a soothing smile and continued.

What
the hell was she doing and where had she conjured up the nerve to do
it? Of course, the worst he could do was say no. No, not
true. The worst he could do was laugh in her face.

"Did
Marty put you up to asking me out or was it your idea?"

"His
idea," he replied. Jack sagged inwardly. A mercy
date?

The
look on Riddick's face didn't make her feel any better. His eyes
were dark and focused, any expression they held masked by an utter
lack of color or light. Jack considered quitting right here, but
the wondering was driving her to distraction and she needed to focus
now if she was going to cut her dad and his thundering herd of
bullshit off at the pass.

"Would
you have asked?"

"Probably
not." Riddick shifted in his seat, looking distinctly
uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

Her
sagging became something more like seeping into the floor mats.
They would have to bring in the industrial-grade hoses to get her out.
Maybe she was going about this all wrong. No, obviously
she was going about this all wrong.

"Are
you just answering the bare minimum to chap my ass?"

"Yes."

"I
figured," she said, praying that her smile looked satisfied
instead of maniacal or giddy. It must've passed, at least,
because the one he returned held the sort of fond charm that made her
feel eight feet tall whenever it was directed at her. She
narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.Time to play with you for a while, big boy.

“So,
what made you think I would be interested?” she asked, pursing her
lips and raising her chin defiantly.

Now
it was his turn to look gob-smacked.Jack fought hard and suppressed a victorious smile.Hah! her mind shouted.Riddick gnawed at his bottom lip and his tongue flicked out to
moisten it before he caught himself and started to smile.She smiled along with him, but didn’t stop.

“I
mean, what’s it been, months?How
long is a girl” – woman, dammit, woman – “supposed to wait?How many hints is she supposed to drop before she gives up
and runs off with her hot, hunky South American masseuse, Enrique?”

“Enrique,
huh?”The smile faded
from his lips, but his eyes still held it.

In
a swift, smooth motion he leaned forward, across the back seat of the
cab and pressed his lips to her ear.Startled at first, Jack twitched away but quickly found herself
with her back to the window.His
breath warmed her neck and made her skin prickle all over as he softly
whispered a few choice phrases she’d only heard him utter in her
sleep.He retreated to
his side of the car, looking for all the world like a little boy who
had yelled out a dirty word at the dinner table in front of his
prudish grandma.It took
a moment before she regained enough sense of herself to consider
praying that he didn’t notice her nipples standing rigidly against
the thin fabric of her shirt.By
then she was sure he had.

When
she was almost sure she wouldn’t stammer, she broke into a broad
smile and said, “It takes you a while to get started, but once you
do, you sure don’t mess around.”

He
looked thoughtful and maybe a bit…relieved?Realization dawned on her suddenly and she hoped to God the
surprise hadn’t leaked onto her face before she could stop it.This was not the suave, experienced older man that she’d
always dreamed would come to take her away.Not even.Riddick was
something entirely different.Better,
she smiled to herself.He
was older, sure, and experienced, though not in the way she’d
imagined her man to be.The
notion marched up to her complete with accompanying fireworks and a
uniformed marching band.What was shining behind his
augmented eyes was not confidence at all but the
direct and hopeful look of a nervous man.My
god, she thought.He’s
as new at this as I am. She almost laughed out loud at the notion, but was afraid
he’d take it the wrong way.

Thus
reinforced, Jack smiled gloriously for the next several blocks.

v
v v

When
the cab came to a stop Riddick repressed the urge to pop the door and
run headfirst into the nearest wall.
A lot.What happened to “take it slow, Dickey”?“Treat her like a lady, Dickey”? “Quit acting like a
fucking moron, Dickey”?Where
the hell was the Pissed-Off Captain’s voice in his head when he was
acting like a horny teenager? He’d half-expected her to slap him.Instead she'd smiled and said something ambiguous.Things were in order after all.She knew exactly what she was thinking and he was confused as
hell.And he’d started
off so well.He made a
mental note to bring to their date the most fantastic gift he could
find in order to distract her from his behavior.

He
slipped his card through the worn, black reader and waited for the
driver to give him a receipt.The
card had his name on it, but what it really amounted to was an
allowance from Uncle Marty.Riddick
had no money of his own, something that had occupied his thoughts more
and more often since their arrival on Terra-luna.The hotel, the food, the cab fare, all came out of his former
captain’s savings.Martin
had encouraged him to live it up – and he had done so, no lying to
himself about that – but it felt wrong.Sure, he hadn’t minded living off taxpayers’ money in
prison.Shit, he’d have
been happy to relieve them of that burden.But what the hell could he do?He’d never had a paying job in his life.Not entirely true, he supposed, if he counted the modest
salary he’d earned for his stint in the military.There was always Jack’s promised payday when and if she won
her inheritance.Great,
taking money from kids, now?

And that’s not all, buddy.

Not a kid, he reminded himself.
The fact that she'd stopped staring holes through his chest when he
called her one went a long way toward convincing him. She didn't
even look like a kid, anymore; a fact he'd noted repeatedly in the
last few days. Perv.

As an afterthought, he added a
hefty tip to the fare and tapped on the plastic barrier that separated
them from the cabbie. The man turned, raising a salt and pepper
eyebrow at him without managing to look at all interested.
Cabbie training, he supposed.

"We're
waiting for someone," said Riddick, his voice carefully neutral.

"It'll
run up," the man replied. "Sitting's the same as
driving."

"No
trouble. We're not going anywhere in particular until I give you
an address."

The
cabbie nodded and arranged himself comfortably in the front seat.

Jack
leaned her face against the window and watched the front door.
Scooting cautiously up behind her, Riddick peered out at the Castor
Building. It was short, like nearly all of the structures on the
satellite, but its rounded corners and spacious, glass-enclosed lobby made it
appear far less squat and blocky than the others. Between the shimmering panes
were bricks of pale, porous moon stone. The stone was low
density and so couldn't bear the weight of entire buildings. It
was used most often in facades and ornamentation, as it held detail
well and its snowy white surface repelled wear and stains
indefinitely. They ground it into detergent, too. Goddamit,
he'd had too much time to read, lately.

Reaching
behind her without looking, Jack fumbled for his sleeve and tugged on
it. He followed her gaze as she pointed. "There he
is."

Her
hand shot for the door release and Riddick stopped her. "My
job, Boss Lady," he said. He glanced around the back seat
and sighed. "This would be a lot more impressive if we
had our own wheels," he grumbled. "Well, you work with
what you got."

Virgil
Weller was almost to the street when Riddick slid the door open and
stepped out in one smooth motion. Spotting him, the man stopped
in his tracks, fingers clutching his briefcase so tightly they turned
white. He looked as though he might bolt. Sure sign of a
guilty conscience -- or a keen sense of self preservation. Riddick knew
exactly how terrifying he looked with his game face on. Hell,
he'd practiced in the mirror for this one.

To
his credit, Weller didn't run. Instead, he managed a tenuous smile and
extended a hand.

Riddick
made no move to take the proffered hand, keeping his own hands in
front of him, fingers linked almost
primly. He would miss have Marty to bounce off of, but it
wasn't the first time
he'd had to play the badass solo. Nope, buddy, all bad guy,
here.

"Ms.
Weller would like to have a word with you," he said flatly.
With a short step back from the vehicle, Riddick nodded toward the
open door. For a moment, Weller regarded it with something just
short of naked terror, then his look of uneasiness was overcome by the
kind of bland pleasantness one expected from a used car salesman.
With a determined gait he walked boldly up to the door, bending first
to peek inside and then sliding in beside Jack. Riddick dropped
in after him and pulled the door shut, plunging the back seat into
half-light again.

Arranging
himself stiffly between them, Virgil lay his briefcase on his lap and
regarded his daughter with what looked to Riddick like a raging case
of the willies. She'd dressed for this, a cream-colored business
suit with pants that hugged her hips and flared at the bottom over
low, brown boots. Beneath the jacket was a white knit shirt with
a round neckline that showed her pale throat and collar bones without
dipping too far. Her hair was swept back and piled loosely on
top of her head, held by a simple, metal barrette fashioned after the
skeleton of a fish. Her face was set in an expression of careful
detachment with the slightest hint of disgust. Riddick almost
smiled. Damn, she was beautiful.

"I
was hoping you would--" Virgil began. Jack cut him off, her
voice low and measured, almost a whisper.

"I
don't know what you think you're doing, Virgil," she said,
tapping a finger on her knee. "But I know that I don't like
it."

Riddick
leaned forward and tapped the plastic divider. The driver didn't
turn, but the cab pulled forward, dodging around a man stepping out of
another car along the curb. Frowning, Riddick turned briefly to
watch him through the back window. Son of a bitch looked
familiar. He made no move to follow, so Riddick let it go.

"Jackie,
Swee--Maybe if you told me what it was I did to upset you?"

"Too
long a list," she said. "I'll just pick one thing, how
about that?"

The
question appeared to be rhetorical, but Virgil nodded, anyway.

"I
tried to get some legal information this morning," she began.
Realization dawned visibly in her father's eyes, but she continued
before he could open his mouth to defend himself. "I was
informed that there was a hold put on distribution of my inheritance
because someone had filed a suit pertaining to it. Would you
happen to know anything about that, Virgil?"

He'd
schooled her on the use of her father's first name and the power it
had to level the playing field. Looked like it was working, too.
Every time she said it, the man seemed to shrink further into his
suit.

"I
filed it right after you left," he sighed. Adjusting his
hands nervously on the briefcase, he continued. "I'm sorry,
Jackie. I hoped you would come back, I wanted you to, but I had
to protect myself. My business was going under. I didn't
have a thing and there was nobody left to borrow from."

"Too
bad you weren't thinking about Grandpa's money all along. It
might have kept you from being such an ass that I felt the need to
leave," Jack replied. Her eyes narrowed and her lips curled
upward in a humorless smile. "Or were you trying to
behave and just doing a really bad job?"

"I
understand how upset you are, Jackie--"

"No,
I really don't think you do."

Jack
reached forward to pull the clothbound diary from where she'd hidden
it in a pocket attached to the back of the front seat. With a
flourish, she flipped it open to the last page and pulled down the
lining to reveal the card that wasn't there.

"What's
wrong with this picture, Pops?"

Virgil's
"huh?" was implied by the blank look he turned on Riddick.
Apparently realizing there was no help there for him, he swallowed
loudly, bit the bullet and faced Jack. His mouth jerked into a
nervous smile.

"How
about a hint?"

"Fair
enough," nodded Jack. Her brows drew together in a slight
frown as she tapped the discolored rectangle. "Where the
fuck is the card that used to be here?"

Recoiling
at the expletive, or perhaps the hint of menace with which it was uttered, Virgil
worked his mouth soundlessly for a moment and then managed a drawn
out, "Oh, the--I have it. I--" He actually began to redden,
gesturing feebly as he continued. "I, well, I went through
your things, you know, hoping to find some kind of clue about where
you'd gone. Tried your mother's..."

"You
called Mom?" Jack asked doubtfully.

"I
did," Virgil nodded. "Though in retrospect it was a
horrible idea. She laid into me for letting you run off."

"Good
for her."

He
rolled his eyes at her and relaxed his grip on the handle of his
briefcase enough to let the blood back into his fingers. The
initial terror had subsided, but, Riddick noted, the man was still
paying attention.

"She
was worried to death about you."

"Good
to know somebody was," said Jack, dropping the book into his lap
and making him flinch.

"Jackie,
I was worried." With a swift glance over his
shoulder at Riddick, he added, "I'm still worried. These
people you're with...where did they come from? How well do you
know them? I want to know why two grown men feel the need to
hang around a girl your age."

A
good move on her old man's part, trying to drive a wedge between them.
Or it would have been if that were possible. Riddick frowned.
Was it? What if it finally dawned on her that she'd been
flirting with a confessed murderer? Did she understand what he
was as well as she thought she did?

Riddick
snorted back a laugh and it made Virgil jump. Good afternoon,
ladies and gentlemen. All aboard the Jack Express, no stops
here.
Maybe he didn't need to worry so much after all.

"Honestly,
Jackie, I don't know when you got to be like this."

"Got
out, saw the galaxy, learned to talk dirty..."She
flashed a look past her father and caught Riddick's eye, making him
fight back the fierce grin that threatened to betray his grim facade.
"That'll change a girl. Where's the card?"

"My
safe deposit box," Virgil said slowly. "I'll--"
His look brightened, causing them both to regard him suspiciously.
"I'll give it to you over dinner."

"Dinner."
It came out much the same way Riddick could imagine her saying 'dog
shit'.

"Marlene
and I are dining out this evening," he nodded. "And
we'd both be delighted to have you join us."

What's
this?

"You
both would, would you? By the way, about Marlene..." Jack
began.

An
alarm went off in Riddick's head and he widened his eyes at her,
hoping she would catch the signal before it was too late.

"She
seems like a nice girl," Jack finished smoothly. Her
emphasis on the last word appeared to immediately draw her father's
attention away from the minute pause. "I'd like to meet
her."

"Wonderful.
We'll pick you up at eight," he said. His smile was broad
and genuine, and Jack returned it even as she shook her head.

"We'll
meet you there," she corrected.

"We?"

She
nodded toward Riddick. "I'm bringing a date."

"You're
bringing a bodyguard to dinner?" he asked, incredulous.
"Jack you don't have to--"

"Date,"
she repeated sternly.

Virgil
looked to Riddick and obviously failed to find the sympathy he sought because he sighed and slouched into the
seat, defeated. Riddick thought of flashing a
toothy grin and making a semi-lewd remark just to shake the man up
more, but that would have been a disservice to Jack. She'd
nailed the 'in-charge' persona and he wouldn't do anything to
jeopardize it, now. Weller scowled and opened his mouth to spew
what were no doubt angry words. Then he closed it and sighed
again.

"Darkside
Restaurant, eight o' clock," he said finally. "We've
got reservations for three, but I'm sure they can work something
out."

"Three?
That sure, huh?"

He
didn't answer, and instead reached for the diary on his lap and held
it carefully in both hands as though it were something precious.
Jack watched him for a moment with an odd look before she glanced out
the window and spoke.

"Somewhere
we can drop you?"

"Home,"
he said, turning to smile at her. "Got to get ready for
dinner with my little girl."

Jack
opened her mouth but closed it again without speaking. As
Riddick leaned forward to give the cabbie the address, her expression
flashed with brief anger before she turned to frown at her reflection.

Thirteen

Mackey
almost slammed his coat in the cab door as he watched the white Fargo
Cab pass him and pull into traffic. A dozen expletives tried to
crowd their way out of his mouth at once, resulting in a kind of
incoherent grumble. There was no mistaking the girl's profile.
Not for him. Not after the time he'd spent burning her features
into his brain. And he sure as hell couldn't miss that big
bruiser she traveled with. The surprise was Virgil Weller,
sitting between them, stiff as a board.It occurred to Mackey that the trip might not be a voluntary
one and he
raised his hand to tap on the window of the car he’d just left, but
let it drop.

"Lusci?" He
cupped a hand over his earpiece to keep out the hum of traffic and
trotted to the sidewalk.

“Yes,
Garvin?” came her muffled voice from his pocket.

“Hook
up and keep tabs on a hack for me,” he said.“Fargo Cab number sixteen.Tell me where it stops.”

“Will
do,” she replied.“Are
you ready for your meeting?”

“More
than,”he
nodded, then wondered why. She couldn’t possibly see
him, folded up in the dark inside pocket of his coat.Heading diagonally across the small plaza in front of the
Castor Building, he continued.“I
want the conversation recorded.”

“Are
we having trust issues, Garvin?”

“Mmm.Going in,” he said hurriedly.“If they pop you open, do me a favor and try to look like an
appointment book.”

She
surprised him with a laugh.“But
Garvin, I am an appointment book."

The
thick, glass door slid aside at his approach. Dodging departing
employees, he made his way to the reception desk and flashed a small,
conservative smile at the woman seated there.

"Good
afternoon--"

"Miss
Tavares," Lusci whispered in his ear.

"--Miss
Tavares," he repeated dutifully. "Garvin Mackey.
I have a five-thirty appointment with Mr. Castor."

She
tapped a screen and lifted a small hand scanner. "ID,
sir."

Mackey
handed it over, gazing past the counter as a pair of elevator doors
opened in the hallway that stretched out behind it. A thickly
built man stepped out, running a hand over his close-cropped, black
hair and fixing Mackey with the kind of politely forceful gaze
practiced often by bouncers and security men. He stopped beside
the desk and paused for a beat, perhaps waiting for the ID to clear,
then gave a curt nod.

"I'll
show you up, sir," he said in a voice that didn't quite match his
impressive frame. He found himself wondering briefly if Castor
kept eunuchs. "If you'll follow me."

The
ride up was so smooth and quiet Mackey could almost swear the only
sound was that of the shoulders of the other man's suit straining at
the seams. The doors opened onto a waiting room staffed with yet
another receptionist, though the plaque on her desk read
"Administrative Assistant". She glanced up as they
passed on their way to a pair of oversized, inlaid wooden doors that
would probably fetch the price of a small condo up here.

The
gorilla that had showed him up pulled a small rod from inside his
jacket and ran it over him. Apparently satisfied with the
results, he waited for a nod from the woman and opened the doors.

Inside
was less an office than a small museum surrounding a desk.
Castor regarded him from behind it, silhouetted by the artificial
daylight in the windows. The real thing was scarce in Mackey's
life and the ice in his employer's gaze made him long for it. He
indicated a chair on the other side of the desk and Mackey sat as the
doors to the room swung silently closed.

"Good
news?" Castor asked simply.

"I'm
afraid not," said Mackey. He reached slowly into his coat
pocket and set a disk on the table, then slid it halfway across and
replaced his hand in his lap.

"I
was able to get close enough to observe Ms. Weller with her--" he
searched for a word, decided to use the one Castor had provided him
earlier. "Kidnappers. I was, however, unable to get
close enough to remove her from their custody."

That
was a lie. He'd had a window of opportunity big enough to fly a
freighter through. Almost ten minutes between the time the men
left to when she got off the elevator on the second floor, leaving him
behind. But instinct and a realization that had begun to form
the moment he saw the three of them together had stopped him from
laying a hand on her, or even asking her a simple, "are you
alright?"

"I'm
sorry to hear that," said Castor. "But I'm glad to
hear you've located them. I can send some security men to pick
her up."

Castor's
gaze intensified. Mackey wasn't sure if it was interest or
impatience, but he took the opportunity to explain, regardless.

"When
men who receive a particular kind of training are discharged from
military service, Special Forces, most of them, they are assigned a
nine-digit number to be fixed permanently on their person. Saw a
man with it tattooed on his forehead, once." He paused and
gave a short laugh, though he held out little hope of lightening the
mood, here. "My sources have verified that Ms. Weller's
companions are two such individuals."

"I
know who they are. It's not important."

Now
it was Mackey's turn to glare. "That information would have
been helpful to me earlier, sir."

"You're
the professional, Mr. Mackey."

He
forced himself not to shift in his seat. It kept his mind off
diving across the desk and wrapping his hands around Castor's neck
until the son of a bitch turned blue. What else wasn't he
telling? This job had seemed like a peach when he'd agreed to
it; a good way to redeem himself for losing the girl at Port Safi in
the first place. Now it was starting to smell.

"Then
I'll give you my professional opinion, sir. Ms. Weller does not
appear to be held against her will. Her--" this time he
used a word of his own. "--companions don't behave like captors,
and my guess is that they aren't. Men with prisoners don't sit
around drinking in hotel restaurants, they order room service."

"I
certainly hope you're not basing all of your assumptions on evidence
that thin, Mr. Mackey."

He
swallowed the first reply that sprang to mind and kept his voice level
as he continued. "She had plenty of opportunities to
flee," he said. "She chose not to."

"She
may be under the impression that she's in no danger."

The
idea that an impressionable young girl could be manipulated by men
like Riddick and Bender was more than feasible. What did he
really know about her? His original employer had told him she
was willful and independent. That hadn't narrowed it down much.
Friends? Hangouts? Did she have anywhere to go? How
much money had she taken? Virgil Weller had sure as hell known
the answer to that last one, but not much more. And what Mackey
had found out on his own had served more to confuse than enlighten. But
looking at the three of them together he couldn't get over the
feeling, unlikely as it seemed, that she was in charge.

He'd
tracked her to her passage on the Hunter-Gratzner, a freighter out of
Cai-shen modified to take the truly destitute and desperate on a magic
carpet ride through scantily mapped sections of free space. Case
closed. He'd hopped a fast-track ship to the freighter's first
stop but by the time he reached it, the distress call had already
beaten him there. There were no available charters and the next
ride out was a salvage ship that wasn't due back for over a month.
So he notified the port authority as back-up and spent so much time
loitering in New Tangier's orbiting docking station that people had
started to offer him loose change. When she showed up alive with
the crew of the very ship he'd been waiting for, he'd had visions of
bonuses theretofore unknown to man. Legalities prevented him
from taking her into custody on the station, but the authorities
assisted by picking her up planetside.

He
never even got to see Jackie Weller, himself, just the surveillance
photos of her being escorted out of the Port Authority offices by a
guy posing as a lawyer. He'd just pegged that one as Bender, but
still wasn't sure which of the men was responsible for the terrified
suit they'd found in a maintenance closet, bound hand and foot and
gagged with his own tie. They'd risked a lot to get the girl
back.

And
now they were sharing a hotel room. Made sense if she was a
hostage. Made sense for a couple of other things, too.
Maybe Castor was right. It wasn't as though Mackey wasn't
feeling smugly satisfied at the idea of getting back at the men who'd
put him in this position in the first place. Besides, his job
was done. All he had to do was take the check and go, maybe
treat himself to a vacation on a Mexican beach.

"They're
at the Galileo Hilton," he said. "Room 217. I
recommend for the safety of all concerned that you try and hold for a
time when the men are separated or the girl is alone. It's best
to consider them armed but I suggest that you avoid a direct
confrontation if at all possible. Stu--"

"Thank
you, Mr. Mackey," Castor interrupted. He withdrew a yellow
credit chip from his shirt pocket and slid it to the center of the
desk to rest beside Mackey's disk. "We can handle it from
here."

Mackey
stood and reached across to scoop it up into his hand, extending the
other toward Castor along with a smile he hoped didn't look too much
like a grimace. Or a snarl. Castor didn't stand, but took
the hand and shook it, then nodded vaguely toward the door, which
Mackey interpreted as his dismissal. The walk from desk to door
was an exercise in control. His legs almost ached with the urge
to dash.

Outside,
he didn't wait for a car, but started walking his way out of the
business district. He told himself it was the cool night air he
wanted, but that was a crock. It wasn't as stale as ship air but
it was just as canned. He was walking something off.
Frustration? Anger? In the office, Castor's curtness had
only steamed him a little. Now that it had had time to sink in
it was beginning to chafe.

"Did
you get all that, Lusci?"

"Recorded
and saved to remote," she replied. "Are you finished,
then?"

"Blessedly
so," Mackey breathed. "That guy gives me the
creeps."

"He
certainly could have been more appreciative of your efforts."

He
snorted. "Men like that don't appreciate much."

"Have
you received your monetary appreciation?"

"I
have," he chuckled, slowing his pace. He fingered the
unmarked credit chip in his pocket. "How would you like to
spend a week in Acapulco?"

"Wonderful,"
she said. "I can work on my tan."

A
Fargo Cab passed on his left and something clicked in his brain.
"Damn," he muttered. "Lusci, where did the hack
stop off?"

"Case
closed, Garvin."

"Humor
me, please."

After
a short pause, she replied, "2002 South Sydney.
Tranquility."

"A
residence? Who lives there?"

She
took a moment and he began to wonder if she was processing information
or developing a flair for the dramatic.

"The
residence is registered to Marlene Castor."

He
frowned. "Well, what the hell's up with that?"

"Acapulco,
Garvin. Think of Acapulco."

Fourteen

The
door shut with a click behind her and Jack waited a moment for her
vision to go from black to dim before she kicked off her shoes and
started toward her room. Halfway across she found the television
and groped for the power switch. With a high-pitched, electronic
whine the screen lit up, casting a bluish glow on Marty, stretched out
on the couch. Light glinted from beneath his eyelids, not quite
closed, and Jack's heart skipped a beat. She paused and waited, breathless,
until his chest rose and fell once, then
sighed her relief and crossed to her room on
tiptoe.

She
threw open the closet as though hoping to surprise the clothing
inside. The nice things she'd picked up on the trip were hanging,
though little else had been unpacked. Five pairs of shoes were
piled haphazardly on the floor, and her lip quirked as she spotted the
gold thigh-highs. The boom! of her dad's head exploding would be
heard for miles if she showed up for dinner in those things. Dressing for dinner was going to
involve finding that perfect place between impressing
Riddick and looking like she wasn't trying to impress her
father. They'd be just right, then, wouldn't they? Tempting, but no.
She smirked and tossed them back.

Jack
undressed as she perused her meager wardrobe. She pulled off her
jacket and shirt and dropped them on the bed, then debated with her
reflection in the dresser mirror over whether or not to change bras. Finally,
she took it off altogether and let it fall on top of the shirt, then
turned back to the closet.
Black, black, red, white, gold -- oh, hell no -- and more black.
Too short. Too stuffy.
She separated the 'no ways' from the 'maybes' and stepped back,
staring at them without really seeing.

"Dinner,"
she muttered. "Evening stuff is black, right?
Shit!"

With
a sigh, she dropped onto the bed and flopped backward. The
cabbie said it was a nice restaurant; monkey suits, ties, the whole
deal. She
pictured Riddick in a tie and nothing else and smiled. Grow
up, she chided herself. Sneaking peeks through the bathroom
door was no way to prove to him that she was mature enough for a
relationship. But oh, mama.

She
summoned an image of their arrival at the restaurant. They would
get there late to make sure that Virge was there to see it.
Riddick would give her a hand out of the car and maybe she'd even give
him a pat on the butt for being kind enough to close the door after
her. Then he'd offer her an arm and she'd take it with an
appreciative squeeze. Everyone, this is my big, bad
man. It would drive Virgil nuts.Jack
pictured an evening steeped in double meanings and grinned.Can I pop that cork for you, Jack?Why Richard, I thought you’d never ask.She made a mental note that when they took a cab to the
Dark Side together – Jesus, what a metaphor– they’d iron things out on the way.

Then
she frowned up at the ceiling. Was that any way to start out? Their first date just one big
joke played on her father? She sighed. No. Maybe
they'd just have a good time and let her dad pick up the bill.
They'd already put the scare on him, after all. Still, she would
love to see the look on Virge's face when she spent half an hour
arranging Riddick's napkin in his lap. Hell, in that case she'd
like to see Riddick's face, too.

He
was talking to her more. Or rather, there was more to what he
was saying. They'd been talking for months, and while she was
sure he'd been telling the truth when he said she knew more about him
than almost anyone, it still didn't feel like enough. She still
didn't know how he felt about her. Was she a pal? A
friend? She cringed. A sidekick? The notion that he
was sticking with her for the payday had reared its ugly head now and
then. She'd brushed it off and done her best to bury it, but it
wouldn't stay gone until...until what? Until he pledged his
undying love to her? Yeesh. Okay, well, that would be
nice.

Problem
was, he cared too much about what he'd done in the past. She
should have been afraid, and sometimes was. One night, after
they'd left Port Safi, the obvious had dawned on her and sent her
bolting upright in her bed: Riddick was an honest-to-God killer.
The hands she wanted to hold had stabbed men to death. She'd
almost sacrificed her own life for a man that had spent years on death
row and had even come close to letting her die to save himself.
Oh, the fucking irony.

What
she really wanted to believe, she realized, was that she'd made it all
stop. That he wasn't a killer anymore and it was all because of
her.

I've
done things I'm not proud of.

Goddamit,
hasn't everybody?

The
soft light in the hall flickered briefly and at the whisper of feet on
the carpet Jack was suddenly reminded of her nakedness. She
rolled off the bed and snatched up her jacket, slipping into it and
fastening every other button. She caught sight of Marty's broad back
as he shuffled down the hall and into the bathroom and smiled to
herself as he grumbled
wordlessly when the light clicked on..

Marty
knows.

That's
because he's done them, too.

Jack
flipped the lid of her suitcase open and yanked out a pair of worn,
blue sweatpants, hopping into them as she made her way down the
hall. He turned to watch her and she felt suddenly ashamed for thinking about grilling him in
this state. But then
he smirked around the toothbrush in his mouth and shook his
head. He bent out of sight to spit, then straightened, smiling
weakly at her with white foam on his lips that put her in mind of the
most mellow rabid dog ever. She couldn't keep from smiling back.

"How'd
it go?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then
frowned and pulled a towel from the rack.

"It
went," she shrugged. "I think we scared him a little,
which is fine by me. But then he invited me to
dinner. Again."

"Dinner?"

"Yep.
I figure either he's really keen to get me alone or he's always hungry. Not sure which."

"I
take it you're going," Marty laughed softly.

Nodding,
Jack slid past him and stood in front of the long mirror for a look at
her makeup. Still good, she supposed. Her eyes flicked to
Marty's back and its starburst scars, beginning to fade. The
flesh had come back mottled and unnaturally smooth where it had been
blasted apart. He rarely talked about how it happened, for which
she was guiltily grateful. The idea of what he must have gone
through made her feel incredibly stupid for everything she'd ever
complained about in front of him. Didn't seem to bother
Marty nearly as much as it did her. It occurred to her that
maybe he always seemed so
content because he wore his scars on the outside, where they
didn't chafe as much. He shifted, crossing his arms in front of
him in a wholly unsuccessful attempt to look casual while covering the
small, round patches of discolored skin there. She realized
she'd been staring and tried not to make it worse by looking
apologetic. His expression, bordering on uncomfortable as he
fiddled with the pendant of St. Martin around his neck told her it
wasn't working.

"We're
making a date of it," she said, nudging him gently.

He
raised an eyebrow."Dickey
step out for a c-corsage or something?"

"Said
he was going to get his hair done."

He
laughed and Jack felt better, then remembered why she'd followed him
in here in the first place and sagged. Start small.

"I
don't know what to wear," she said. At least it was true.

"That
black thing with the roses is nice."

Jack
dropped her hand from messing with her hair and stared at him.
"Marty, are you sure you're not gay?"

She
leaned over to close the toilet lid and sat on it, dropping her hands
into her lap. He looked so tired. But she trusted the advice of a brain-scrambled and
drug-addled Marty more than her own intuition just now.

"Am
I doing the right thing?" she blurted.

Marty
pulled himself up onto the counter and put his back to the mirror,
wincing once at the touch of cold glass against his skin before
settling against it.

"In
regards to what, Honey?" he asked.

"Where
to start?" Jack sighed. "God knows I've had all kinds
of time to think about what I was going to do with my dad when we got
here. I've sat around just...hating him so much that it could
actually be considered a hobby and picturing all sorts of extremely
unpleasant scenarios." She couldn't hold back a giggle and,
watching her, Marty cracked a smile.

"But?"

"But
now that I'm here and he's being so nice to me and--" She
stopped, trying to recollect her thoughts and focus them. If she
didn't, poor Marty would end up just as confused as she was.
"I don't want to trust him. I made a promise to myself that
I would never trust him again as long as I lived because he's already
suckered me too many times."

"And
now that you've seen him it's not that easy."

Jack
threw her hands up and made a small, flustered sound. "Why
is that? He's an ass. I know that for a solid, eye- witnessed
and freaking notarized fact. The jerk's done nothing but lie to
me my entire life. Most kids don't have to deal with anything
worse than finding out that the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus aren't
real. Not me, boy. Hey Marie, did you know your dad is a
bookie? Hey Marie, do you know your dad's sleeping around?
Do you know that when I was four the asshole actually left me on a bus
stop bench for five and a half hours while he went to some woman's
house? He paid the lady at the ticket window twenty bucks to
keep an eye on me and told me that grandma was coming on the bus and I
had to stay put or I'd miss her. He's got no fucking--" she
groped for the word. "Scruples! Shame!
Brains! Whatever!"

He
listened silently as she ranted. His gaze was sympathetic but
thankfully without an ounce of pity. Jack waited for him to say
something, but instead he drew his legs up on the counter and leaned
his elbows on his knees, considering. Then he sighed and nodded.

"I
used to think my d-dad was a real dick, too," he said
finally. "People always told me that he was strict for my
own good, that he only wanted what was best for me, but I wasn't
having it. He was the biggest bastard that ever lived and I
wasn't going to change my mind. Then I grew up and went
out on my own, joined the Marines...And you know what?"

She
shook her head mutely, dreading the answer.

"I
discovered that I'd been absolutely right. He was definitely a
dick. No question."

A loud
"Ha!" burst from her before continuing into helpless
laughter. Marty smiled at her and his eyes, tinted from their
native green, narrowed into crescents that shined with the warm,
yellow light from above the mirror. She wondered what they'd
looked like before they'd been altered and decided that they were
probably spectacular.

"So
you're saying I should go ahead and break his legs," she smirked.

"I
know it's old, tired advice, and I can feel myself drying to a
crust as I say this, but you don't need to sink to his level.
You're better than that."

Her
heart did a little dance at the compliment, but at the same time, she
couldn't help but wonder what had instilled her boys with this
inflated opinion of her worth. Well, what the hell?

"How
do you know?" she asked.

Was
that the look of a man caught off-guard? Had to be a trick of
the light.

"I
know," he shrugged. Funny thing was, she
believed him. "You're a smart lady. Besides, it takes
a good heart to take in the strays everyone else has passed over."

"Okay,
maybe you do know," she grinned.

"You're
a survivor, Jack," he said. "You'll do fine."

She
shook her head. "That was Riddick's doing, not mine.
I would never have made it this far on my own."

"Doesn't
make you any less alive," he replied. She could hardly
argue with that. He opened his mouth as though to continue, but
it took him a moment to get the words out. "He thought you
were worth saving. Take that as you will, considering the
source."

Was
that worth saving like a soul or like a dollar? Moment of
truth. I can trust you to be straight with me, Marty. I
know I can.

"How
would you take it?"

His
look seemed to turn inward for a moment, and Jack was afraid she'd
lost him. They'd never talked about Riddick so directly, and she
was sure there was a reason for it. Ice filled her belly.
Did they talk about her when she wasn't around? Of course they
did. She swallowed and hoped Marty hadn't noticed her brief bout
of anxiety.

Eventually
he sighed, and spoke. "Considering the skewed view on the value
of human life with which he's been instilled, I'd take it as a
compliment. But to tell you the truth, I don't think even he
knows why he did it. Not at first."

"And
now?" she encouraged.

Jack
wondered if it was reluctance or his usual post-seizure haze that made
Marty slow to answer.

"Now
I think he does," he said
simply.

She
looked up at him hopefully, but feared he might be done. With a
quiet grunt he shifted his weight away from his right hip and
straightened his legs, then let them hang over the edge of the
counter. For a time his attention seemed focused entirely on his
feet and Jack stayed still and quiet, afraid to interrupt whatever
thoughts had so consumed him. She prayed they were in her
favor.

"I
think you
represent something to him," he said slowly. Before she
could ask, he added, "What that is...he's going to
have to tell you."

"Then
why hasn't he?" she half-shouted. It echoed loudly in the
small room and he winced. Jack cringed in sympathy and hoped she
looked as sorry as she felt when she continued more
quietly. "He's certainly had the time. And it's
not like I haven't been painfully obvious that I'm interested in
him. He says these...things, and then he beats around the bush
and I can never tell if he's serious or not... What's wrong with the
man?" She paused to catch her
breath. "Is it me? Is he embarrassed or something?"

On the
verge of begging, Marty's distressed look made her stop.
For a horrified instant she thought she saw the too-familiar haze
creeping into his eyes -- not now, not while we're alone, please! --
but it cleared and the gaze he turned on her was tired and a little
bloodshot but very much aware.

"I
think," he began. "I
think what worries him is that what he's trying to hang on you is too
heavy. That--" he paused, glancing ceilingward as though
the right words were written there. "That rather than being
lifted up, he'll pull you down, instead."

Jack
opened her mouth to reply and promptly shut it again. Every
answer that tumbled, disorderly, from her mind dried up before it
could reach her lips.

Gingerly,
Marty slid off the counter and set his bare feet on the tile.
Jack stood as she heard a loud, angry buzz at the outside door and he moved to let her
by.

"I'll
run interference for you," he said. "Go get
dressed."

She
looked up at him in stunned silence and watched as a smile stretched
his lips and the light in his eyes took on a hint of amusement.
He put an arm around her and pulled her into a soft, warm embrace,
whispering, "You'll do fine." Then he released her and
gave her a gentle nudge toward her room before shuffling off down the
hall.

Jack
watched him go and swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. Why couldn't
you have been my dad?

v
v v

Riddick
shifted the long box from one arm to the other, straightened his jacket and
swept his key card through the electronic lock. Nothing.
Mother... He swept it again and was promptly chastised with a
flashing error message and a buzz that echoed in the hall. On
his third try, the door came open and he stepped inside, half-expecting Jack to be waiting
right there, dressed and ready to go. No such luck. What
he got was Marty, lounging on the couch with the remote control
balanced on his stomach. He glanced up at Riddick and gave him the kind of cool
perusal one would expect from

no,
no, no, he is not doing this to me

an
overprotective father checking out his sweet, virginal daughter's
young punk of a suitor.

"Have
a seat, brother," Marty said without looking up.

"You
have got to be kidding me."

"She'll
be out in a bit," he shot back evenly. "You know how
girls are."

"No
I don't," snorted Riddick. "And neither do you." He dropped into an
overstuffed armchair and set the box across his lap. Marty
turned off the set, which Riddick guessed had just been turned on, and
laid the remote on the low table in front of him.
"What are you doing?"

"What's
in the box?"

"I
asked you first."

"Watching
TV."

Riddick
shot him a look but his friend's facade didn't crack. He sighed
and let it go. No point trying to break the Cap. That was
a no-win situation.

"So
what's in the box?" Marty repeated.

"Present
for Jack."

Bender
nodded approvingly and Riddick felt a spark of frustration but quickly
stamped it out. He thought instead of the considerable
aggravation he'd saved himself by being arrested at such a tender
age. No high school. No high school girls. And none
of their overprotective fathers, either. Part of him wanted to go off
on the man for making this harder than it needed to be. But he
wouldn't. He knew how Marty felt about Jack. About kids in
general. Never mind that she wasn't a kid, anymore.

"Jack
said things went alright."

Recognizing
a prompt when he heard one, Riddick nodded, grateful for the change to
a subject they could both relax into.

"We
had a nice ride," he smirked. He shifted in his seat,
fingers idly toying with one of the box's corners. He was
downright itching to give it to her. Finding it had been a
stroke of luck, but buying it had been a stroke of genius.
"She's right. The guy doesn't walk, he oozes. There's
no telling exactly how much of what he says is bullshit but an early
estimate puts it at around eighty per cent."

They
both chuckled and Marty eased his feet up on the table. Riddick
would have joined him in slouching, but his suit was already suffering
minor wrinkles from the day's cab rides. It was the best suit he
had. Shit, the only one he had. He hadn't figured an
actual social
life into his wardrobe selection.

"Is
he going to give us a hard time?"

"Not
sure," he shrugged. "I'd say he was genuinely
concerned about her."

"Wouldn't
you be?" Marty sighed, gesturing between them.

"Confused
as hell by her, too." He smiled suddenly.
"Jesus, Cap, you should
have seen her. Handled him like a pro; would've brought a tear to your eye."

"Sorry
I missed it. Anything
new on Marlene Castor?"

Riddick
shook his head. "Hoping to score something at dinner," he replied.
"That was kind of the whole idea behind us going in the first
place."

"Yours?"

"No."

"Hell,
she is good. Hooked her old man and you at the same time."

He
answered with a "hmpf", having had the same realization
while he was out. "Man-eating monsters and guys armed to
the teeth I can handle. A teenaged girl with an agenda is
completely out of my league."

"Sure
you'll b-be alright doing this solo?" Bender flinched as he
stuttered and Riddick almost did the same, but caught himself.
"You know, handling social graces and security at the same
time?"

"I
think I can manage not to eat the soup with my fingers, yeah," said
Riddick.

"Okay,
well, the shrimp fork's the little one. That's about all I
know."

"There's
a shrimp fork?"

"Sometimes
even if you don't order shrimp. Figure that one out."

They
fell quiet, and Riddick began to fiddle absently with one corner of
the box on his lap. Finally, he glanced self-consciously around
the room and leaned toward Marty to whisper, "How do I
look?"

"Oh,
shit," said Marty, snorting laughter.

"I'm
serious," Riddick hissed. He stood, setting the box down to
smooth his jacket and straighten his tie. He looked back to
Marty for an opinion to find him rolling his eyes emphatically toward the hall.

He
followed Bender's gaze to Jack, outlined in the doorway by light from
her room. She was wearing a little black dress with an asymmetrical
pattern of red roses that she'd picked up on the way through Cai-Shen
station. It was off the shoulder but held up by a pair of thin
black straps. The long sleeves started level with the low,
straight neckline and ended in flared cuffs that made her slender
wrists look even more delicate. The dress came to the knee,
ending in a black fringe that shook as she bounced nervously on a pair
of black heels held on by two simple, narrow straps. She fiddled
nervously with a small, black purse as she stepped out and
shrugged.

"So?"
she asked. "You guys'll tell me if I look like a dork, right?"

Riddick
noticed that she'd let some of her hair out of the swept-up,
businesslike arrangement she'd worn before. Golden strands hung
down in strategic disarray, the longest ones settling on her
shoulders. He didn't realize he'd been standing and staring
until Marty stood and nudged him not-so-gently.

"You
look fantastic," he smiled, groaning inwardly at the lameness of
his reply.

It was
true, though, and she smiled, so he figured he must have done
good. She crossed the room to stand beside him, and the three of
them shared a short, awkward silence before Marty made a show of
glancing at his watch.

"Better
motor," he said. "Or you'll be late. You
got protection?"

Jack
gaped at him. "Marty!"

Riddick
reached into his jacket to withdraw a small, dull black handgun and
waggled it before checking the safety and returning the gun to its
holster.

"Oh,"
said Jack, blushing. "Silly me."

"Oh,"
Riddick echoed. "I brought you something."

Her
smile widened as he picked up the box and held it out to her.
Jack handed her purse to Marty and started to reach for it, then
seemed to reconsider and pulled the lid off, instead. Her eyes
lit up as she lifted the roses from their paper and beamed at them for a moment before
holding them to her nose.

At her
touch, the pale petals flushed with color, darkening from a hint of pink all the way to deep red. Startled, she almost
dropped them, then giggled nervously and held them away from her face
to inspect them.

"How'd
they do that?" she grinned.

"They're
intelligent," explained Riddick. "They're uh, artificial,
with a small processor in the bud. Sensors on the stems take
readings to determine the mood of whoever touches them and then
interprets it into an assigned color. There's a little card that
came with them, has the key on it."

There,
he sounded just like a goddamn genius. Marty looked
impressed. Two for two.

"Wow,"
Jack whispered, examining them closely. "So what's red
mean?"

"Not
sure," he lied, pretending to look thoughtful as he quickly
tossed the empty box back on the chair.

"Well,
let me see the--"

"Gonna
be late," he interrupted. "We'll have a look when we
get home. Here, Marty'll find something to put them in,
right?"

Marty
nodded, but made no move for the roses. Riddick glowered at him
but couldn't put a dent in the other man's shit-eating grin. He
smiled at Jack over the flowers as he took them, cringing as they
flared an even more intense red. Biting his lip in an obvious
effort to contain laughter, Marty took them from Riddick and cradled
them with one arm where they promptly faded to a subdued blue.

"They're
beautiful," said Jack, standing on tiptoe to plant a kiss on
Riddick's cheek. "Thank you."

She
turned to Marty and he leaned down for his own kiss. "And
thank you, too, Marty," she said. He straightened and
winked at her, making her laugh. What was that all
about?

"You
need us..." Riddick held up the small, silver comlink he kept in
his pocket.

"What,
no hot babysitter?"

"Service
is in the book, under 'E', you can order your own."

Riddick
put his arm out and Jack took it, reaching back to get her purse from
Marty before they headed for the door.

"You'll
be okay, right?" she asked.

"Fine,"
Marty nodded. "You crazy kids go out and have a good
time."

Fifteen

Rain
pelted the high canopy with a sound like applause as seven
men in faded, muddy fatigues picked their way slowly through close trees and
tangled brush. Heavy boots squished softly on a mat of rotting leaves and
wet, spongy soil, leaving shallow, temporary puddles where they
stepped. The air was hot and thick with moisture that gathered
as an ankle-high mist hugging the bases of the trees and as sparkling droplets
on everything else. They trudged with heads up
and rifles ready in a premature twilight brought on by the heavy,
black clouds overhead.

A man
walked at the center of their loose formation, his rifle slung and his
attention held by the dimly glowing screen on the small device in his
hand. He made his way with only an
occasional glance at the terrain, skirting trees and overstepping
exposed roots with supernatural ease.

"Tree,
Wilco," said one of his companions
helpfully.

"Don't think so, wiseass,"
Wilkins muttered in return.

"Hey,
Kelly. You know he can see through your clothes with that
thing?"

Kelly
looked vaguely nervous, then scowled at his companions, struggling to
keep their faces straight. "Fuckers," he grumbled
amiably,
though his accent made it come out more like "fookers".

Captain DeOliva made a small, cautioning noise and they fell
back to walking in silence. They came to a cut in the ground where a small stream had
chewed its way deep into the soft earth, to form a natural
trench. The point man, Cochran, had already jumped it and gone
on. Wilkins paused to look down at the shallow water that swirled
fallen leaves on its surface and lapped gently at its narrow, muddy
banks. After a moment, he leaped across, wavering as his heels
sank into the loose dirt on the opposite edge. His arms flailed
as he tried to preserve his balance and maintain his grip on the
scanner. Finally, he righted himself and sighed his relief as
the other men burst into quiet laughter.

"If
I get shot in the arse while you jolly bastards are chuckling..."
Wilkins looked back to see who was guarding that particular part
of his anatomy and saw the vague yet reassuring shape of the XO
bringing up the rear. He turned back to the screen and his
breath caught.

"Shit!
Ten o'clo--"

Gunfire
erupted from the trees ahead, kicking up chunks of turf and grass and
splintering red-brown bark. The men scattered, seeking cover behind
trees and diving into the trench. A shot struck the scanner
squarely and glanced off of Wilkins' body armor. He staggered
backward and lost his footing, falling in a heap at the edge of the
cut where the captain and Kirwan pulled him in.

They
squatted with their backs to the dirt and Wilkins lifted the scanner,
relieved when he was met by its comforting glow. The bullet had
left a considerable dent in the case, and he wondered briefly what
kind of dent it would have left in him.

The captain fixed him with
a stern gaze. "Wilkins?"

"I had nine
contacts, Cap. Twenty-five meters, between ten o'clock and one."
He shrugged and added. "Then they fucked the FIU.
Need a sec to reestablish."

"You
in one piece?"

He
paused to take quick inventory as he worked to get a hold on the
previous contact. Finally, nodded, "Five by."

"I
think we just ran into a bunch of guys doing the same thing as
us," said Kirwan.

Crawling through the
frigging jungle looking for somebody to shoot, thought
Wilkins. Likely.

They'd begun charged by
their altruistic purpose, but after 327 days of crawling through the
rainforests of Myenshe's northern continent and fighting to pry
these sons of bitches out of the woodwork, they were running on
frustration. The continent was about the size of Mexico on Earth
and thanks to the melting glaciers that formed it, the only good-sized
piece of real estate above water on the planet. Central to main
corridors and far more attractive than it's larger neighbor, Bolshier,
it was being eyed by more than one developer. The men they faced
were hired soldiers, contracted by an off-planet interest to keep
Myenshe free from settlers until the effort and expense could be
spared to develop it for themselves.

Posing
as harmless squatters, the mercenaries had revealed their purpose once licensed
colonists began to arrive. Settlers were massacred and millions of dollars
in equipment destroyed before a
distress call reached the authorities. They responded with a
division of the Free Space Marine Corps, a descendant of the US
Marines that had evolved to include a conglomeration of regulations
and men from the military forces of several nations. The aggressors were forced to retreat from
the populated eastern coast toward the rocky, inland mountain range, where
they took to fighting in the jungle and staging frequent raids which served to
remind that they were still intent on their purpose. But nobody
was more intent than the 25th.

They all stood and fired into the brush as
Kelly and Doc dropped in beside them. Boots splashed in the shallow water
and
they crouched, balanced briefly between keeping their heads down and their asses dry
as they regrouped.

"Cochran
and Bender?"

"Up there keeping an
eye out, reckon," said Kelly, wiping mud
from his eyes and grinning. "You know how they are, yeah? Nothing left
for us."

"They should be right
here," growled the captain. He paused and passed his
stern gaze over each of them, then added, "Spread out and fire at
will. Wilkins, work faster."

"Got it," he
said quickly. A series of images flashed on the screen and
resolved themselves into a picture that, seen through the grids and
figures projected inside the matching eyepiece, gave him an accurate
view of the enemy position. Chips carried by the other men in
the squad pointed out their wayward brothers. "Cochran is
three meters in front of us at two o'clock, so watch your fire.
Nine contacts, three of them down..."

He activated the linked
systems in their helmets and fed them the information.
Two at ten; two at twelve; one at one and another at two, a few meters past
where Cochran was crouching. The situation here was more severe
than the usual small skirmishing between rival squads. The
presence of these people could mean that the concentration of their
forces, or some part of it at least, was nearby. If a man got
away, or the jamming function of the Field Imaging Unit was damaged or
deactivated, the enemy would know they'd been located and might pull
up stakes before reinforcements or an air strike could be called
in. On the other, no less disturbing hand, the enemy was likely
jamming them as well and couldn't let any of their number survive to
report their location.

Bursts of fire continued
and contacts kept dropping until the last two began to move away in a
sudden burst of speed.

"They're bugging
out!" shouted Kelly, already half out of the
trench.

"Catch a live
one!" Bender's hoarse voice reached them as he hopped the
cut and tore after the retreating mercs.

They dove out of the cut,
the captain bellowing orders as Wilkins tracked the fleeing enemy and
directed the others after him. It wasn't long before he
heard three shots and Bender's voice again, a gruff not-quite-shout.

"Don't run,
asshole. You'll just die tired."

Wilkins watched as the
enemy contact on the screen came to an abrupt halt. By the time
he caught up with the action, the men had surrounded and disarmed the
merc, who stood at the center of their circle, hands in the air as
Kelly patted him down. In addition to the rifle they'd already
confiscated, he turned up two knives with broad, single-edged blades
and a pistol in a holster at his ankle. He was still, but not
calm by any stretch, though it seemed like he was trying awfully hard
to look it. His raised hands trembled and his eyes darted from
man to man as his lips moved ever-so-slightly in what Wilkins thought
might be prayer.

The captain circled in
like a vulture, pointedly muscling past Bender to take his place in
front of the prisoner. That
drew a look from the XO that made Wilkins almost painfully nervous,
and it was clear from the glare he returned that the captain didn't
much care for it, either. Nearly twenty-three, Bender was one of
the oldest guys in the squad and unlike DeOliva, possessed an
effortless, natural charisma that bound men to follow him. Rumor
had it he'd been
passed over for a command primarily because of his training at
backwater Fort Benchley, which to hear most guys talk, wasn't much past a ring of pup
tents and a latrine. Wilkins wasn't sure if it was fighting the
reputation or the hard living it implied, but Benchley turned out some
of the meanest guys he'd ever come across. And he was
looking at one right now.

Bender let it drop and let
him pass, just as he'd done with every instance of dick-waving,
blatant and subtle, since DeOliva had been assigned to the
squad. They'd been together for months before, this
bunch. DeOliva, though, was new; the
third commanding officer they'd had since the action on Myenshe began. The difficulty,
Wilkins thought, lay in the fact that HQ insisted on assigning
fresh grads with the most advanced training but no experience in the field. The result was often fatal,
as evidenced by the alarming turnover rate. They couldn't be expected to
stretch themselves to protect these tenderfoot commanders, though sometimes
they tried. The result was that only six men of the original
squad of thirteen remained; himself, Cochran, Kelly, Kirwan, Doc Adam and the XO, Bender.
Yessir, captains came and went -- and
went and went -- but they were stuck with Marty Bender. That was
fine by him. The guy was luckier than a rabbit's foot and tougher than a fifty cent steak.

"Where is your base
of operations?" the captain demanded.

"Subtle,"
muttered Kirwan. If DeOliva heard he gave no sign.

The man's dark fatigues
were well-worn but relatively free of fresh mud. Chances were he
hadn't come far to get here. Wilkins swallowed and widened his
scan.

"That way," the
prisoner nodded west. "About three klicks."

Too easy, said the
look exchanged by the men. But then, the conflict had dragged on
long enough to leave the enemy low on supplies and probably morale,
too. Men captured were returned to HQ and eventually shipped
off-planet to discourage rescue attempts and to reduce the number of
men required to maintain them. The guy almost looked relieved
despite the tremors in his hands.

"Focus your scan,
Wilkins. West."

He nodded and did as he
was told, encountering the usual forest signals -- trees; the thin blue line of the
stream; signs of small animals. Then he frowned. How in
hell had they not seen that before?

"Big blue line,
Cap."

"What?"

"The cut leads to a
river," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
"Big one, too. Between the weather and the tweaky
atmosphere, we must have missed it."

"A river?" Kelly
asked. "Entire river? Were goes it, then?"

"South, genius,"
said Bender, smirking.

"It turns southeast, then it's out of
range."

DeOliva leaned in to study
the imaging screen, though without the accompanying equipment, the
picture was less than whole. "That's how they've been
moving," he said.

"Air support?" offered Kelly.

The
captain shook his head. "Weather on the coast
has them grounded. Reinforcements will be sent from HQ 2 on my
request."

"This
bites," grumbled Adam. "There's no point to action on
the ground. We find 'em, leave beacons and get the fuck out of here.
Then all we have to do is wait for the weather to clear and drop
something on them. Game over."

"Oh,
hell no," Kirwan piped up. "It'd ruin the property
value."

"Some
contractor from Babbatunde Corp has to build condos here," threw in Bender. "Wouldn't want to make his job
tougher by filling it full of holes and making it glow. Hell, we're probably sitting in the
middle of a fucking golf course right now."

"The purpose of our
mission," DeOliva snapped. "Is to locate and extract
the enemy with as little damage to the environment as possible."

Kirwan opened his mouth to
reply but Bender waved him off, then turned a cautioning look on the
others as well. The captain continued, either not noticing or
ignoring the near-argument.

"We'll follow the cut
to the river and have a look. This is now an
intelligence-gathering mission, so we'll avoid offensive action if we
can."

Smirking, Kelly extended his middle finger. "Does this
count?"

"What do we do with
this guy, Chief?" Adam jerked a thumb at the prisoner.

DeOliva handed his weapon
to Wilkins, who shifted the scanner and slung the rifle beside his
own. Pulling a length of plastic band from his belt, he bound
the man's hands behind him.

"Head due east.
Someone will pick you up."

"
Captain, we'd do better to pick him up on the way back," said
Bender.

"This is procedure, Lieutenant."

"I understand that,
Captain, but given the possibi--"

"Stow it,
Bender. Just because we're out in the bush doesn't give you the
authority to pick and choose the regulations you
follow."

To their credit, the men
didn't gasp out loud, and Bender, to DeOliva's good fortune, didn't
simply raise his weapon and plug the man. Wilkins could hardly think
of a worse time for the tension that had been simmering between the
two to come to a boil. He had no doubt who the other men would
side with, and thought of leaping to the captain's defense in a futile
attempt to even the odds.

The officers eyed one
another in silence until DeOliva broke it. His voice wavered
only slightly as he gestured toward the prisoner and said, "Get
moving."

Bender's weapon twitched
and Wilkins thought for a moment that he would end the debate by
removing the captured merc from the equation. But the man walked
away unmolested, crunching over the fallen leaves at a steady but
wisely not-too-hurried pace. After a moment, the captain found
his voice again.

"You're on point,
Bender," he said, less steadily than before. "We'll
head back to the trench and follow it downstream."

"Whatever
you say, Sir." Emphasis on the last word made it sound like
anything but a term of respect. DeOliva's eyes narrowed, but let it
go. Bender hustled to the edge of the cut and dropped in, then
called back. "Y'eard th'man. S'go."

Christ,
thought Wilkins. It's never good when he stops fucking
enunciating.

They all followed,
splashing into the shallow water and forming up single file. Staying
low, Bender trotted downstream and out of sight. Wilkins, paired
with the captain, watched the XO go with a touch of disappointment. It wasn't that he had anything
personal against DeOliva. Okay, that was a lie, he had
plenty. The guy was full of combat theory -- and more -- but it was Wilkins' guess
he'd never once fired a weapon in another man's direction. He'd
been stamped out on the officer assembly line of a traditional
academy, handed
a promotion for being the best boot-polisher in his class, and
assigned to the 25th for reasons that Wilkins couldn't begin to
fathom. He maintained a distance
from the men, the running joke being that it was hard to tell whether
or not he was talking over the radio, even if he was standing right in
front of you.

Eventually,
the streambed meandered briefly northward. As
they rounded the curve, there was no sign of Bender. Wilkins
almost jumped out of his skin when the man reached down from above to
touch him on the shoulder.

"What are you doing,
Wilco, checking for snipers?"

"Eat
shit, Bender." He tried to scowl while breathing a sigh of
relief.

"Two
guys and twenty minutes, Cap," said Bender.

It
seemed that DeOliva might protest, but finally he nodded and waved
Cochran and Kelly out of the trench. Wilkins bit back his frustration
at being passed over once again. He dared a peek over the edge
to watch as they moved off, fading into the twilight and the dense,
tangled forest with a sigh.

Slipping
off his helmet, he placed it on the firmest patch of mud he could find
and sat. For a long while he watched the water flow lazily
around his feet, surrounded by the wet smells of damp earth and rain. A breeze ruffled the grass at the
fringes of the ditch and dipped down to cool the sweat in his
hair. Wilkins sighed and looked up through an opening in the
canopy, watching the last hint of light slowly fade. He fitted his night
vision goggles around his head and adjusted them to the current light
level, then pushed them back down around his neck and turned back to the
field imaging unit. An image flashed briefly on the screen
before the whole thing turned to static.

"What the fuck?"
he muttered.

"Wilkins?"

"I just lost the
signal."He kicked himself for letting
himself be spoiled by technology. Soldiers had functioned for
centuries without it, and even these days it was sometimes rendered
useless by naturally occurring circumstances or in this case --

Don't like this

--human intervention.

"Heads up, it's been
jammed."

"They know we're
here," grumbled DeOliva. "The forward team blew
it."

"No way in
hell," said Adam, shaking his head.

Wilkins
scowled as a familiar, acrid scent reached him. He couldn't
place it, or even pinpoint it's source. It seemed to be coming
from all around.

"You
guys smell that?"

Nods
all around. "What is that?"

He
glanced at the scanner and then back up to their questioning
looks. "I got shit, here."

"Gasoline,"
said Kirwan suddenly.

"Well
where the fuck's it coming from?"

The
hair on the back of his neck began to prickle, and Wilkins had the
sudden, almost certainly suicidal urge to leap from cover and
run. Apprehension formed a leaden ball in his stomach as he
turned up the scanner's mild glow and faced the screen toward the
water at their feet. He tried to swallow but his throat went dry
as he spied the ribbons of color swirling on the shallow stream's
surface.

"Wilkins,
what the fu--?"

Ohshitohshitohshit--

"Get
out!" he shouted. "Get out of the w--"

A wall
of fire rushed through the narrow trench, engulfing the men as
they dove for the sides. Wilkins frantically clawed
at the dirt and hauled himself over the edge, then rolled to put
out the blaze that flared briefly on his pant leg. Hoarse cries rose over the roar of the flames and
he staggered to his
feet, squinting to find the others through the bright pinpoints of light bursting
in his vision. The initial, brilliant flare had subsided and he was able to make out dark shapes moving on both
sides of the furrow.

Something
whistled close past his ear and the trunk of a sapling exploded,
showering him with splinters. He scurried toward cover, wincing
as erratic gunfire disintegrated branches overhead. Drawing up behind a
tree, he put his back to it and
fought to catch his breath. He shook bits of bark and dirt from his
hair and cursed as he realized
he'd left his helmet behind, and his radio along with it. The
night-vision goggles still hung from his neck, but they wouldn't do
much good until the flames died down.

"Wilkins!"
Adam's voice. The man materialized out of the darkness,
grabbed him by the arm and shouted, "Where the fuck's your
helmet, Wilco?"

"Left
it," he hollered back. "Who's shooting?"

Adam shook his head, which did nothing to answer the question. Then
he clarified. "No shooting," he said. "Ammo
blowing. We're getting the fuck
out of here!"

"We
can't leave--" he began, gesturing vaguely in the direction the
scouts had taken.

"They're coming,"
Adam assured him. "C'mon, this isn't the best place to
be."

Wilkins holstered the scanner and took up
his rifle, enjoying the familiar weight of it in his
hands. His
weapon had been slung so long it was starting to wear a groove in his
shoulder. As the
scanner tech, Wilkins always traveled at the center of the group, leaving him free
to do his job without dividing attention between his equipment and a
weapon. Now that the field scanner was useless, he was just
another grunt. Hell yes. Bring it on.

They hurried through a
darkness tinted green by their night-vision goggles, Adam tilting his
head periodically to concentrate on the voices of the comrades Wilkins
could no longer hear.

"Fuck me, all hell's
breaking loose."

"We
compromised?" Frankly, if there was a merc within miles, Wilkins
couldn't see how they couldn't be. A nagging voice in the back
of his head told him that that son of a bitch they'd turned loose had
something to do with this.

"I don't know, but it
sounds like DeOliva calculated precisely the wrong moment to lay into
Bender and then followed up on it."

"For fuck's sake,
now?"

Adam nodded and picked up the
pace. Deprived of both the FIU and the helmet that had linked
him to the other men, Wilkins simply followed, a wary eye on the
forest around them. "Right over there, somewhere."

The others weren't nearly
as hard to find as they should have been. Approaching
cautiously, Wilkins felt a knot forming in his stomach. Bender and
DeOliva stood a few feet apart, speaking in harsh whispers while the
other men hung off to the sides, nervously handling their weapons,
their attention riveted to the officers. Wilkins noticed the
undone snap on the captain's sidearm holster and tried to remember if
it had been that way before.

"You compromised
yourselves and gave us no warning!" snarled DeOliva.

"Bullshit,"
Bender returned with disturbing calm. "The only reason
anyone knows we're here is because that fuck you let wander off set
your ass on fire."

"You don't know
that!"

Bender nodded at Cochran,
who produced a small, handheld radio. It wasn't one of their
own.

"Bet I do."

Fists clenching and
unclenching, DeOliva fumed. "You're lying."

"Why the fuck should
I lie? Who do I need to convince that you're a posturing
prick?" He gestured at the rest of the squad. "These
guys?"

"You are way out of
line, Lieutenant!"

Wilkins waited for Bender
to blow up and tear the guy a new asshole. But it didn't
happen. Instead, he took a deep breath and nodded, his shoulders
relaxing into a near-slump.

"You're absolutely
right, Sir." He tensed suddenly and raised the muzzle of
his rifle even with DeOliva's head. The captain's eyes went wide
as he jerked his sidearm from its holster and they both fired.
Bender's shot went wide, but DeOliva's caught him square in the chest
and he went down. At the same time, the captain pitched forward
as the men to his right were hit with a thick, sticky spatter that
turned black under the
moonlight.

They all seemed to put it
together at once and, turning their weapons into the trees and
darkness beyond DeOliva's body, they saw a single, lifeless form
crumple to the ground.

"Holy shit,"
muttered Kirwan, shaking his head in disbelief.

Adam started to drop to
one knee beside Bender, but wound up giving him an arm up
instead. Just left of center of his body armor was dented and
marred. Had the shot gone through, both of them would be dead.Whole but still wheezing from the impact,
Bender wavered on his feet for a moment before he steadied and his eye
fell on DeOliva.

"Oh, fuck me,"
he gasped. "Nobody's ever gonna believe I didn't kill
that dipshit son of a bitch."

"You've got us,"
shrugged Cochran. When Bender snorted a laugh, he added,
"Okay, shit, even I wouldn't believe us about that."

"We're fucking up the
river," he said suddenly.

"You said it,
man."

"No, asshole,"
Bender said slowly, rolling his eyes and letting out a poorly suppressed
chuckle. "We're going to find a way to block it
somehow. There were boats in the river, a ways upstream.
They're moving slow, loaded down. Not good. Go now.
Got it?"

"We're fucked,"
said Kelly gravely. "Must've landed on his head."

"Shouldn't we wait
for reinforcements?" asked Wilkins hopefully.

"What, so they can
slap us with another asshair like that?" replied Bender,
gesturing at the captain's corpse. "Uh-uh. Guys like
that have gotten enough of us killed, thanks. With me?"

"Fuck yes!"
Kelly nodded. Cochran stepped up to stand beside Bender without
a word and the others followed, though with more vocal
enthusiasm.

"This is nuts,"
muttered Wilkins, knowing full well there was no talking them out of
it.

Bender took a step toward
him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Wilco, my man, it
only looks that way because you're rational."

Smiling, Bender formed
them up with a gesture and they all started back toward the river.

"Oh yeah, that makes
a lot of sense."

Wilkins, resigned,
jogged after them. He felt his nerves begin to unwind as the smell of
sodden, rotting vegetable matter was replaced with the odor of clean
water.

"Over that rise,"
said Bender. "Doc, call HQ 2 and fill them in."

"What if they give us
orders to stop and fall back?"

"We pretend we didn't
hear 'em."

Ducking low, they mounted
the small hill and dropped onto their bellies. Wilkins stared,
dumbfounded. The river was narrow, but the slow-moving flotsam
on top suggested depth. So did the convoy of boats sunk in it
almost to the rails. The two in front carried large,
deck-mounted guns with long strips of heavy-caliber ammunition
dangling from the sides. Men stood on the near side of the
leader's deck, making it lean dangerously. Unaware
or unconcerned, their attention was focused on the flames rising into the
sky.

"Nope," said
Bender. Wilkins watched him set his rifle for single shot while
beside him Cochran did the same. He considered the possibility
of a bad day getting worse. Or better. He shrugged.
"They might die of shrapnel poisoning, though. Going loud--"

"Now." He
took aim at the deck gun on the lead boat and fired once. A
spark flashed before fire erupted from the ejection port with a brief,
thunderous bang. The air whistled with bits of flying metal that
burnt into the deck and sent the merc manning the gun stumbling
backward with a strangled cry. He fell and stayed down.
Some of the men crowded near the bow clutched at themselves and
dropped as well, though Wilkins couldn't tell who was injured and who
was seeking cover. While they scrambled, Cochran took the longer
shot at the second boat, with much the same effect.

The return fire was
frantic and disorganized, hardly what they'd come to expect from the
men they'd been up against for the better part of a standard
year. The mercs ought to be scraping the bottom of the barrel by now,
with all the guys that had been captured and shipped off-planet.
Wilkins wouldn't have been all that surprised to find their base of
operations only to discover that it was empty except for a mess cook
and a private with a pocket knife. These guys had them
outnumbered at least two to one, but they also couldn't come any
closer without making their way through the water. If retreat
became necessary, they could certainly do it. On the other hand,
they also had--

"Grenade!"
shouted Adam.

Wilkins quickly calculated
the arc and realized the thrower's aim was dead-on. But before
they could retreat from their position at the top of the hill, Bender
jumped up, counting quietly to himself as he snatched the hurtling hunk of metal out of the air and
side-armed it back across the river. It bounced once on the deck
of the first boat and dropped into a view-slit cut into the protective
window covering. The plating channeled the explosion downward to
the relatively unprotected bottom and fingers of fire blazed from
narrow openings in the armor as the boat was rocked and lifted at
least a foot in the water. It dropped again, waves lapping over
its deck as it went down. Secondary explosions sent water
bubbling and spraying high into the air. They refrained from
firing on the men forced into the water, instead concentrating on the
other boats. Two ships in the rear, unable to turn in the narrow
channel, collided and bounced off one another. The second
gunship, in attempting to avoid the wreckage of the first, came to a
halt as it beached itself. Hindered by their heavy loads, ships
spun slowly but steadily out of control.

"Yes!" shouted
Kelly.

They took advantage of the
confusion to move down the line and cause even more. The few men
that made it their side of the river were captured and retained, hands
tied firmly behind their backs and rooted on their knees by the dark,
watchful eye of Kirwan's rifle muzzle.

It ended with a complete
clusterfuck of ships blocking passage down the river and nine men in
custody. They secured the position and their chain of prisoners
and toasted the new, if temporary CO with a drink from Kelly's flask.

"Fuck me swinging,
you threw back a fucking grenade," said Kelly, slapping Bender
hard on the back. "You're bloody mad!"

"You're goddamned
right I am," replied Bender with a smirk. Wilkins was sure
he'd seen as much surprise and relief in the man's look as anyone
else's, but didn't mention it. He couldn't fault the man for
being either, really. "Never was a problem couldn't be
solved with high explosives."

"To Wilco," said
Kirwan, raising the flask. "For warning our asses out of
the fire."

"Wilco!" they
echoed.

Kelly snatched it
back. "To Mad Marty!" he said, smiling broadly.

They all looked
expectantly toward Bender, awaiting his reaction. He said
nothing, but instead grinned and made a vague "carry on"
gesture.

"Mad Marty!"
they repeated again.

Kelly started to drink,
then handed the last swallow to Bender, who took it gratefully."You're never gonna top that one,
Chief," he said.